


Blue English Eyes

by wellmet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-10
Updated: 2018-10-10
Packaged: 2019-07-28 22:20:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16250942
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellmet/pseuds/wellmet
Summary: Based on the premise that John knew that Sherlock was alive. A short piece inspired by the old song 'Blue Spanish Eyes'





	Blue English Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the old song "Blue Spanish Eyes" and the idea that John knew Sherlock wasn't going to die.

BLUE ENGLISH EYES  
Meretseger 2018

I was listening to the old 'Blue Spanish Eyes' and this just popped into my head. To the Muses my thanks and a drop of wine.  
This is my take on the idea that John knew what Sherlock was going to do when he jumped and why.

*********************************

John Watson re-read the short note that somebody had stuffed into his coat pocket as they passed. Maybe one of Sherlock's homeless network or one of Mycroft's agents - it didn't really matter - there were more important things to think about than how the note had got into his pocket. The words blurred in front of his eyes but he knew them, they were burnt into his mind and nothing - not time or space or love or hate would ever be able to erase them. Today, soon (oh, too soon) his friend was going to jump off a building to save the lives of John himself, Mrs Hudson and Gregory Lestrade and there was nothing that he could do to stop it happening. 

Sherlock stood on the edge of the Reichenbach Building the wind whipping his Belstaff around his legs and looked down. Behind him Moriarty was talking but he wasn't listening, all his attention was fixed on John standing below him. He knew he was too high up to actually see his great friend's eyes but he could see the pain, the anguish in them, the deep blue deep like the deepest ocean waiting for him to jump into them. So he did, he jumped, feeling the world rush up to meet him, seeing John waiting, eyes sparkling with tears, deep blue sapphires and diamonds making a place to sink into. 

Not sure if he was locked in some new nightmare or seeing what his brain told him he saw John was sure he felt the earth shudder when Sherlock's body hit the ground; it was as if the very planet itself needed to react to the impact of the body of Sherlock Holmes. 

Numbly obeying the instructions in the note John rushed to the broken body of his friend, let himself be gently shepherded away. Part of him was sure Sherlock was dead, part of him hoped this was all some PTSD dream, some new torment. He could feel the tremor in his left hand growing worse, felt the sharp remembered pain in his knee again. He was broken again and only one thing could put him back together again. 

"Oh, John, John," Molly was there, her own eyes red and wet as she took his arm and held him up as he stumbled from the lift and down the hallway. She opened the door to an anonymous room and then left him, swaying and afraid, alone.

"John." Not a question but a statement and John looked up to see Sherlock standing there, waiting for him to do something. 

John took a step forward and punched Sherlock, putting all his strength and weight behind it. Then, as Sherlock staggered back, he put a hand on his shoulder, a hand on his face and kissed him. 

Sherlock looked down into John's blue eyes that snapped with anger, shone with unshed tears and finally understood. So he did the only logical thing to do - he kissed him back.

Before they could do more than hold onto each other as tight as they could Mycroft was there, for once looking kind rather than superior. "I'm sorry but there is no time …"

Sherlock pulled back a little, "I have to go, John. Moriarty is dead," he looked across at Mycroft who nodded confirmation, "but his network is still viable and I have to close it down."

John nodded. "I know. Come back to me as soon as you can." He stepped back, too, his shoulders going back, his back straightening. Captain Watson looked one last time at the man he loved and said, "I will wait for as long as it takes." Then John was back, the friend, the companion in The Work. "But if I don't hear from you or Mycroft about where you are and how you are I will come and find you." There was no need for any emphasis on the words, John had spoken and the intent was as if graven onto tablets of stone.

Mycroft tutted his disapproval of such sentiment but a glare from blue English eyes silenced him. He suddenly realised that John Watson meant every word he said. He did the only thing he could do, he nodded his agreement. 

"And I will tell Mrs Hudson and Lestrade." Again Captain Watson spoke. 

Mycroft had meant to tell Gregory Lestrade that Sherlock was alive so he nodded. He hoped anger would look like grief for long enough to fool the snipers his agents were even now hunting down. 

John hugged Sherlock again. "I will wait and I will cry for you and when you come back to me we will have words about this scheme of yours." He stepped back, still the soldier in the service of his Queen. "Go now."

Sherlock went, his step lighter than it should have been. He would find all of Moriarty's hirelings, kill them or turn them over to the police forces of the world and then he would come home to John, to Baker Street, to his only friend. 

Not needing to look unhappy and shaking John accepted a lift home in one of Mycroft's black cars and was met by a crying Mrs Hudson. He gently shepherded her inside her flat and told her that Sherlock was alive.

Tears and anger battled in the old lady's mind until she looked John full on and said, "and when he comes back I am going to slap his face." She smiled and added, "and then make some scones."

John had to laugh. "I am sure he deserves both, Mrs Hudson." 

*********************************************************************

Sherlock Holmes lay curled up on the too short bed, trying to get warm under the single blanket. He remembered the heavy warmth of his Belstaff, the comforting warmth of the gas fire back in Baker Street, the inner warmth of just sitting in the same room as John Watson. 

Sherlock Holmes dreamt of blue, English eyes studying him when he was deducing or sulking or too wrapped up in his own thoughts to bother being civil or kind. But always forgiving, always kind those deep blue eyes. 

Sherlock Holmes woke to loneliness; he hated feeling alone - John Watson had ruined him for being alone. He lay on the too short bed and remembered sharing the fireside with his friend.  
************************************

It took two years but he was finally finished, time to think of going home. He took delight in upsetting the guard, telling him his wife was cheating on him. He was hurt, in pain, tired and ready to return to his John and Baker Street. When the guard left he managed to stare at Mycroft through his wet and too long hair. He couldn't tell how upset his brother was, his eyes were too unfocussed. But Mycroft had come.

Back in England Sherlock bathed and shaved, had his hair cut, ate and slept. John knew he was home, Mycroft had kept his promise and John knew he was home but not how badly he had been beaten, how tired he was, how glad to be finally back where he belonged.

John was out of the black car as soon as it stopped, he didn't even bother stopping to be impressed by Mycroft's house. He wanted to see Sherlock, touch Sherlock, kiss Sherlock and then hold him close and let the past two years go as if they had never even happened. He had let the world think he was mourning his friend, had even dated one of the nurses from the clinic where he had found a position as a GP but it had all been a mask for his impatience. He had threatened Mycroft only a week ago, "if Sherlock is not home by the end of the month I will go and find him myself." And now Sherlock was home.

Sherlock watched as John entered the room, not sure what to say or do. He looked into deep blue eyes, surrounded by more lines now, the deepness emphasised by the silver in John's hair. His mind stuttered, for once he was lost for words. Mycroft had left them alone and he just stood there and waited. Had he been away too long? Had John found some one else to be with? Mycroft had told him about the nurse, how he had found out she was an assassin, how he had found a way to get her out of John's life. 

Doctor John Watson looked Sherlock Holmes up and down. He could see the beating in the way Sherlock stood carefully, not wanting his clothes to rub his back; he could see the lack of good food in the guantness in the normally thin face; the lack of sunshine in the clammy paleness of once warm ivory skin. But the eyes were the same even as they studied him uncertainly and that uncertainty was something new in Sherlock's eyes and he hated it. Fortunately John was a very good doctor, he knew the cure for trauma that robbed a man of the certainty of his life.   
"Welcome back," John said moving closer and resting his hands on shoulders that were too thin. He moved closer, letting Sherlock feel the warmth of his body and his welcome. A gentle hand that didn't shake anymore went to Sherlock's face. "Welcome home."

Sherlock let himself fall into the warmth of the deep blue eyes, like the deepest softest silk velvet and wrapped himself in their welcome. Then he closed his eyes, knew John closed his and they were kissing.

John was gentle, he closed his eyes and touched his lips to Sherlock's. There would be time later for passion. Now was time for healing, for welcome, for "thank God you're back."


End file.
